


talk this out

by newmoons



Category: The Twilight Saga, Twilight, Twilight (Movies), Twilight Saga, Twilight Series - All Media Types, Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: F/F, Lesbian Twilight, lgbt twilight saga, queer twilight saga, wlw, wlw twilight saga
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-08-14 17:37:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16497161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newmoons/pseuds/newmoons
Summary: her phone had died at exactly 7 that night.





	talk this out

her phone had died at exactly 7 that night.

her arms had felt empty, floating. but her stomach was wild with anxiety.

“there’s nothing to fix.”

there was nothing to fix? was that what the past 6 months had been to her?

nothing?

she felt as if the world were so much clearer, buffed and shined by this new blade they called heartbreak.

in clear resolution she recalled baking cookies with esme, laughing as rosalie’s eye twitched at the smudge of chocolate on her face.

she had pecked her cheek as she wiped it off, too enamored with her lover— ex lover, she reminded herself— to care for the mess of their clothes.

was that nothing now, too?

desperation for answers churned in her chest, making her doubt the unmoving frost of all their supposed compositions.

they could not be cut open to study, after all. but alice could argue that she was being split in half with all the efforts her heart was taking to splinter.

she debated offering carlisle her position now, as both philosopher and psychic, and in mirth to her struggles.

how was she whole?

her entire soul seemed to throb. “lover,” it called. “lover,” it screamed. rarely, for nothing but a second to a vampire, “lover,” it whispered.

but who it called for remained painfully absent, nursing her own wounds, not to alice’s knowledge, in a room that seemed a world away, clouded with the darkness that followed an absence of light, a bundle of pure joy and optimism that would keep her from her personal depths of seething, blistering rage and depression. (trauma was a heavy thing to hold.)

her phone had died at 7 that night. she couldn’t have answered, couldn’t grasp with cold, shaking fingers the last remnant of her love, her desire, her fate she chose.

and she shuddered, her entire being rejected, at the thought of rosalie with anyone else, with emmett, the gorgeous man of a god-like build and gentle curls, far from her own hair, easy to braid flower crowns into if she so pleased—

she had agreed it was for the best only in retrospect: their fights had developed the lesser of few and far between, and the pain had been too much to bear as she argued her points passionately, matching her wife— oh, and it hurt, to correct herself, for she had planned their proposal, had once seen rosalie’s answer, as charming and beautiful as she were it did not match her intelligence, her romantic core.

she had not known what loss was. she had not known the pain it would bring.

oh, what was the point? if no soul, no end to this pain in sight, what was the point?

she cradled herself at night, eyes pointedly searching her half of the room, the side of the bed behind her cold and empty, catching her eye often and throwing her from the precarious perch of calm and collected she seemed to emanate.

esme extended a motherly hand, the same one she had familiarized herself with in these too-bright, too-white walls. they reflect her emptiness and all she could see was the winter she fell into rosalie's arms laughing and overjoyed and filled with the lightness of each world falling into golden hair, reflecting in golden eyes—

"you have to stop this nonsense," esme argued, somehow gently. "if not for you, dear, for me. for edward, that poor boy won't stop talking about— well, you just have to talk to her, sweetheart. and if you two can't be civil—"

"yes, i know," alice said, and sighed, shoulders dropping in defeat. she could see how this would go if she denied this "civil discussion," and it gave her a headache only a psychic could know with familiarity.

edward tried to reason with her. he knew, of course, rosalie had meant well. he tried to get her to see that too. but she couldn't- not now.

and so emmett tried, pulling her to clubs that she had once fancied with the blonde (and before) and she did enjoy the spotlight, the way the colors danced and the way she saw curious eyes dancing over her oddly sparkling skin.

carlisle was too gentle to speak with, not with the weight of the world in her chest begging for ease, for answers. too versed was he in the subtleties of finding both hazards and exacts in their worlds, shattered as they were.

she would inhale as he entered the room, a clean, blank slate. impossible to sway one way, to ask for advice that was not a mirror held to her darkness. she was tense. she would exhale when he left, the weight gone from her shoulders, trying too hard to be too okay.

so it was esme who approached with finality.

in a blur she was at the stairs, looking down almost petulantly at her mother figure. jasper was at her side in a moment, hand on her shoulder, one eyebrow raised. alice, though her stomach— or what existed of it— twisted, and electricity made its home in her chest and limbs.

she shook her head. he removed his touch, and let her emotions be as they were.

she felt sick.

edward offered her a smile.

rosalie sat, one leg crossed over the other, head turned to watch the window.

snow was falling.

she caught alice’s eye.

she choked, leaning forward to shut the door and breathe deeply. her eyes shut, no energy in her to squeeze them shut tight. images flickered and melded, swirled in different colors of no solid gradient—

jasper touched the small of her back, and she jolted. she swallowed the venom in her mouth, attempting to fight off an unnatural enemy.

"we'll be here for you," esme whispered, and kissed her cheek. then she was gone. edward leaned forward to hug her tightly, whispering words of support in her ear. he only wanted what was best for her, as well. she knew they all meant well. this hatchet would either be buried— buried, or…

an irritation pricked at her eyes, impossible to find fulfillment. would that not be her? would she be able to bridge this aching, cavernous distance within her to save the family from this loose-leaf style they walked in as if eggshells lay scattered on the floor?

she stepped into the room.


End file.
